


Memories of the Fall

by I_llbedammned



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Demons, Fluff and Angst, Hell, Hell Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 03:29:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20146882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_llbedammned/pseuds/I_llbedammned
Summary: Despite being a demon for thousands of years, Crowley is still haunted by the memories of the Fall from grace.  He normally does such a good job of hiding it, but Aziraphale happens to walk in at the wrong moment and senses something is wrong.





	Memories of the Fall

Screaming. The first thing Crowley was aware of was that there was an awful lot of screaming around him. Wait. Not around him. Coming from him. The sound of screaming that seemed to blot out all of existence was coming from his own throat. He barely recognized it with how ragged it sounded.

The next thing he was aware of was the tremendous cold feeling of falling. One moment he was up in the clouds and the next he was screaming, falling through more time and space than he had ever imagined existed before. His stomach jumped up into his throat as he tried to bat his wings desperately but fruitlessly against the inexorable pull of the ground.  
The last thing he was aware of was the pain. Every artist liked to portray the turning of an angel’s wings to demons as pretty, but most of what he was aware of in the moment was pain. With each feather that turned black it felt like someone pulling out slowly each tuft and then forcibly inserting another one into his skin. It was like needles being plunged into the most delicate parts of his body and that was before the impact hit him. 

As the ground rushed up towards him, he fell not into it but instead through it. He just kept falling til an icy plane came up to greet him, smashing against his wings and face. Silvery blood poured from his lips and skin as it scraped along the ice, his wings were so twisted that it took months to get them properly straightened out and healed. This was long before he realized that he still retained the ability to do miracles even in a demonic state. Hell, the term demon didn’t even exist yet. He was just a lost, fallen angel trying to make sense of the world.

After laying there on the ice for a few moments he ascertained that he was indeed not dead and instead something else. He stood up and saw that all around him were friends in a similar state of disarray. Hastur was still screaming, clawing at his once beautiful skin as it oozed with pus and grime. Beezlebub stared in a stunned state, clearly barely registering that all of this was even happening as flies crawled over her flesh and into her ears- too stunned to even bat them away. And there at the center of them all was Lucifer himself, lovely faced with large swooping bat wings and the fury of a man who knows the system he had served previously was unjust. His rage coalesced around him and he threw chunks of ice at the nearest hapless victims, trying to make anybody pay for what had just happened.  
Fear lanced through Crowley as he tried to figure out what had changed about his form. There was no smell of rot about him nor extra limbs that grew. He combed over every inch of skin, finding patches of black scales which in retrospect didn’t seem that bad. He could have been the demon with maggots crawling from their skin eternally.

Wait, what was that?

A glint of gold caught his eye in the ice below him. Looking through the warped image, he stared at the face he thought was his own. But his eyes were all wrong. Instead of swirling with the energies of the galaxies they had gone matte gold and slitted. Hissing he turned away and covered his eyes with his hands, finding that the hissing sound went on far longer than he intended it to.  
It was then he figured out how far his punishment would go. One hand touched the ice as he struggled to get away from his own reflection and it became stuck there, frozen fast in the mire. In panic he tried to pull it away and instead it detached from his shoulder. With his remaining hand he tried to pry it loose, but then his left foot touched the ice and became fixed there. One by one his limbs started falling off, becoming frozen in the ice as he tried to move. More and more scales grew over his skin as his pleas for help became gargled hissing. No, no. It wasn’t supposed to be like this! He was supposed to be a goddamned angel!

Gasping Crowley sat straight up in bed, covered in a thin layer of sweat. In fear he checked his limbs, ascertaining that they were all still there. Also he was no longer in an icy hellscape, but instead a rather cozy bed with black sheets in a flat in London. His heart raced in his chest and the world felt like it was going to cave in on him at any second. Logically he knew he was safe, but memories were not tied to logic.

The dreams of the fall never got any easier. You would think they would at least get less frequent as the years went on, but no. One of the many hidden punishments of falling was never being able to forget the fact that you had betrayed everyone you had formerly sworn to serve. It was enough to make him never want to sleep, save for the odd hours where he got bored enough to wonder if anything about them had changed. They didn’t, for the record. They never did.

“Hello?” He heard a familiar call at his doorstep and his blood ran cold. No, damnit, not his angel. What was he even doing here at-What time was it anyway? Crowley looked around the room and saw the clock read 11. 

Okay so maybe he had overslept, that still didn’t mean he wanted Aziraphale to see him so panicked. Then he would want an explanation and that wasn’t something Crowley thought he had words for. But what could he do?

“Hello, Crowley. I know you said not to bother you for a few days after the Apocalypse, but there is a lovely play going on-“ Started Aziraphale, shuffling around something in the living room.

“Hey, angel,” the demon growled from his bedroom, “Now is not the best time. I think this mortal shell is sick.”

“Sick? Crowley you haven’t gotten sick in two hundred years.” The sound of the angel’s light footsteps were coming down the hall.

“Yeah, I know. It’s unlikely, but I am pretty sure it is tuberculosis and still contagious.” He fired off quickly, only remembering that tuberculosis wasn’t a plague in London in this century after he said it.

“Tuberculosis? I can fix that!” Aziraphale said brightly from right outside his door and Crowley raced to his feet, throwing his weight against the wood. The feeling of a divine miracle washed over Crowley with a familiar itchy burning sensation. 

Of course the angel had tried to miracle away the disease. The door began to move and was only stopped by one large demon slumped against it. 

“Crowley, your door is stuck.” Aziraphale sounded pleasantly confused but patient, “I’m going to have to push it really hard to get through. Hold on.”

“No really, it’s quite al-“ began Crowley trying to control the panic in his voice, but soon found himself punched in the face with his own door as Aziraphale shoved it backwards and sent him sprawling. Sometimes he forgot that the chubby angel who loved books and cake was a trained soldier capable of great feats of strength which in this case included shoving one stubborn snake demon away from his own door.

“There we go!” Aziraphale proudly beamed, looking at Crowley’s bed at first and then confusedly at the floor where Crowley lay, pitifully holding on to his own head and bringing his body up into a curled ball. “My dear, what are you doing down there?”

Steadying his breath, Crowley said into his own knees, “Oh you know, just enjoying the view.”

“I-“ The angel’s voice stopped as he reflected, no doubt feeling the traces of panic at the edges of Crowley’s emotions. Damn him and his god-given gifts. “Crowley, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter. I’m just hungover, that’s all.” He barked, now climbing to his feet and never letting his gaze settle on something for more than a few seconds. CD player, Dresser, Bed – where was a safe spot to look.

“We both know neither of us get hungover. We just sweat out the alcohol.” A soft hand reached towards Crowley and that would be too much right now, so he moved towards the bed and pretended not to see it.

“I know. Normally I do, but I wanted to know what it felt like. It feels awful, by the way.” The demon took a spot on the bed, flopping down roughly on his stomach and burying his face in his pillows.

“If you don’t want to talk then you don’t have to, but at least look at me. My dear, it is like you are another person right now.” The sound of his bed shifting as the angel sat next to him and touched his shoulder. Oh no. Here it came. The revulsion and hatred for his betrayal. “I- Oh!” Aziraphale’s voice changed, softening and becoming delicate. Crowley could swear he heard a tinge of shame in there as well. It was easy enough to look past the fact that he was a demon most days, but he just knew this would be the line for his ineffable partner. It was one thing to hear someone was demon, it was another to feel the emotions from the fall from grace.

Without saying more he grabbed ahold of Crowley’s hand, petting it softly. That was all. It was such a simple gesture, but the wave of love that the demon felt in response was enough to overwhelm his senses. Stupid Aziraphale and his delicate hands, treating him with a wonderful care that someone like him didn’t deserve. The angel just held his hand and waited, his care showing in the touch of his fingertips as he gently stroked up and down the muscles. He just held his hand and waited, his care showing in the touch of his fingertips. The tenderness was enough to finally break the demon, causing tears to start sprouting which were blessedly hidden by the dark cloth on the pillow in front of him. It was the pain of the fall and the torment of forgiveness that tore at his heart and made it ache like a hole had been torn in it. However this pain was not filled with panic, just a wave of emotions. Whatever he had done, or hadn't done, to deserve this companion made all of this pain worth it.

“Angel, you don’t need to dirty your hands with mine. Not this time. I’ll be fine, really.” Crowley halfway mumbled, hoping it sounded stronger than he felt and knowing that he failed badly at keeping that hidden.

“They could never be dirtied by touching you. There is such a profound pain that you carry gracefully.” To emphasize his point, the hand was raised to his lips and a tender kiss was placed upon the knuckles. “My poor dear, I don’t know how you walk with such a hole in your chest.”

“I don’t,” Crowley laughed, bitterly, “I slither for a reason, angel.”

That was all that needed to be said, at least for the moment. Love was not always trying to fix the problems, but simply being there while the emotions were sorted through. Silence was needed and Aziraphale gladly gave it to his friend. However he never let go of his hand and Crowley never forgot that. The angel sat there, holding on and sending the most profound emotions of care through their connection til the pain subsided.


End file.
